metanoia
by itsblissfuloblivion
Summary: Sirius Black calls himself a 'connector', Harry calls him a meddling arse. Still, his plans usually end pretty well. At least when it matters


Honestly, if Sirius wasn't the estate lawyer for Mrs. Figg, Harry probably never would've known about the shop. About _his _shop.

Because Mrs. Figg loved two things - cats and pizza. And apparently thought Harry should too.

It just so happens Harry's most recent assignment has wrapped up - with a significant number of deranged menaces to society locked away. Though not enough. Harry has been victim to the knowledge of _just _how horrible a human can be since he could barely spell his full name.

And now, just about thirty years later, he's bagged his fair share of serial killers - including the one that started it all. At least for him. He's studied, tracked, and caught them with an endless supply of motivation. Motivation that Sirius has on more than one occasion called an 'obsession' or 'avoidance.'

Harry likes to think of it as a positive outcome from a highly traumatic childhood. And saying it that way makes him sound like a well adjusted adult so he sticks with it.

Though in the privacy of his own mind, it sounds less and less true with each passing day.

Which is probably why the shop feels like a set up. A glass half full type might say kismet or destiny, but again, childhood trauma and possible suppression of feelings.

Sirius sighs. "You were rabbit trailing."

Harry grunts. "Was not."

"Tell me what I just said."

"Pizza shop."

"You are a terrible godson."

"No family discount for you," Harry says with a grin, swirling his coffee.

Rolling his eyes, Sirius resumes his explanation. "Arabella loved you in her own strange way and this is her even stranger way of showing it."

"But - _why_? I said I liked her pizza. But she literally has a photo wall of her herd of cats - do I look like someone who wants to stare at that all day?"

Sirius fiddles with his empty Splenda packet, tearing it to bits and sighing a little. And when he _does _speak it's not really an answer. "They would want you to be happy."

Harry blinks.

"Your parents."

"I gathered."

A herd of teenagers bustle into the coffee shop, bringing an icy wind and puddling rain with them. Harry really _hasn't _missed London's general greyness. Psychotic murdering crime syndicate aside, Majorca was _warm_ and _sunny_.

"I'm good at it, Sirius," Harry says after a moment, "Protecting people, catching killers, don't I owe it to them, to everyone, to keep going?"

"Don't let that arsehole steal your whole life - you got justice," Sirius frowns, "However much you could, that is. You don't owe anyone, any of us."

Harry's quiet a moment. "Well I guess we should go take a look at my new shop."

* * *

The first red flag really should've gone up when Sirius told Harry the walkthrough could wait. When he coaxed Harry into taking a post-travel _nap_. Then he makes his chicken alfredo pasta bake for supper and pours him a large glass of chardonnay, which was when Harry began to feel suspicious. But, just as Sirius wanted, Harry's too pliant with rich food and heady wine to question it and ends up falling asleep without even realizing.

Yet, when he wakes, he is in pajamas and tucked in bed, mouth a bit stale. Apparently Sirius draws the line in his babying at toothbrushing. It's just after one in the afternoon and Harry would bet fifty quid Sirius is currently the person buzzing his mobile off the bedside table.

Harry swipes his thumb across the screen and presses the phone to his face.

"Wake up lazy bones."

"You're the one who plied me with wine and pasta."

Sirius' laugh is a huff. "You're such a lightweight."

Harry flops back on the bed and sighs. "Ever hear of jet lag?"

"Nobody likes a whiner."

There's some grumbling on Harry's end and some grouchy barking on Sirius' end and after what Harry will fully own as whining, he agrees to a greasy breakfast and a tour of his new acquisition right off.

Halfway through his third slice of bacon - deliciously crispy and oily - Harry glances at a mysteriously quiet Sirius. "So what is it?"

"What is what?"

"The catch, the surprise, the thing you're going to ruin my breakfast with," Harry answers around the rim of his coffee cup.

"Breakfast? It's well past two. Don't know how things are on the continent but - "

"Breakfast is the first meal of the day," Harry asserts, "Now answer."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Eat your _breakfast_."

* * *

Knowing he's fighting a losing battle, Harry lets the issue drop with a lingering look. Or at least on the surface. Internally, he's still in full Inspector Mode and highly suspicious of every glance Sirius gives him and every word he says.

But odd as his godfather's behavior is, it's not particularly _helpful _in any information gathering sense. Which isn't to say it's not a nice meal. Clinical as Harry may paint himself at times, workaholic though he can be, he loves his godfather and getting caught up doesn't take twisting his arm.

So yes, he drops the issue for a time, but by the time they're walking down to Arabella's, Harry can't resist any longer. "Don't you think you should give me fair warning for whatever I'm about to encounter?"

"Since when do I do things like give fair warnings?"

Sirius pushes the door open, overhead bell ringing their entry, and shepherds Harry inside.

Distracted as he is by the display of gallantry, Harry takes a moment to zero in on the figure behind the counter. And when he does, everything clicks together.

His voice is a low hiss, "What the hell, Sirius?"

"Didn't I mention?"

"You have problems," Harry grumbles, low enough that hopefully their conversation remains _private_, "I officially fire you as my godfather."

Sirius straightens his Santa-themed scarf, jauntily tossed over his shoulder and a bit at odds with the _punk _vibe of his leather jacket. All of which is at odds with his profession but that's an issue for another time. A time when Harry's not less than four paces away from his not-so-secret celebrity crush. Ginny Weasley, star striker for the Holyhead Harpies.

A crush that is complicated all the more by the fact that she's _also _his best mate's sister whom he has not seen since they were _almost _something. Back when he was a dumb teenager with an axe to grind and entirely too much angst for his awkward green bean-esque body.

"You can't fire me. It's outside the scope of your authority."

"I'll - "

Harry loses whatever he was about to say to the ether, well that and Ginny's eyes as her attention shifts from her final customer to the new entrants. Her patented customer service smile slips into place and she's halfway through her welcome when her eyes light in recognition. "Harry! Sirius. I wish you'd warned me."

Ruffling his hair, Harry manages to steel himself and wander closer. "Sirius doesn't do warnings."

Ginny nudges the register closed and passes the customer the receipt once it's printed. "Yeah, I guess that checks out. So we're business partners now, yeah?"

Harry leans against the counter, taking in the half-full shop, Arabella's catered shrine to her cats. Which reminds him. "What about the cats? We're not - "

Grinning, Ginny tilts her head toward the empty barstools and pours a few sodas. "That was my first question. We are not feline parents."

Sirius nods. "Arabella had a lady in her quilting group - she's a cat lover. Took the lot."

"How will all this fit in - aren't you busy?" Harry asks, turning his attention to Ginny.

She shrugs. "Somebody's #1 fan status is in danger, I am officially retired."

"Shite I - injury?"

"Nah, just felt like time. I'm not getting any younger - in sports years - and I'd rather go out on top than limping if I can help it," Ginny explains, "On top _and _in love. The magic was still there but I could feel it fading."

"Time for a new dream, eh?" Sirius puts in.

"Someone's been watching too much telly with Teddy," Harry teases and glances sidelong at Ginny, whose cheeks are a bit flushed, "My godson is _quite _the fan of Rapunzel."

Ginny chuckles. "I learned _that _on very long afternoon of babysitting Victoire and Ted."

The conversation peters out and they linger a bit uncomfortably until the chef passes a couple of pizzas through to Ginny. With a spared smile for her companions, she grabs the two pies and heads into the dining area to deliver the orders.

Harry can't help but watch as she turns on the charm, poses for a selfie with a nervous looking little tween at the table, and heads back their way.

Sirius nudges Harry's arm. "Nice surprise, eh?"

* * *

Things pick up at the shop, so Sirius orders a vegetable laden pizza to go and blusters about something _important _he's just _got _to do and disappears as soon as his pie is ready.

Leaving Harry to feel awkward and out of place, not sure he can leave and even less sure he can stay. The latter more a thing about sanity.

He might not be a huge 'be open about your feelings' person but Harry's at least somewhat self aware. And Ginny Weasley, cheeky and fit as ever, wielding the power vested in her as a co-owner of a pizza shop like a queen with a very doughy throne - well it's not good for his state of mind.

The last forty-eight hours have been highly confusing and unexpected and Harry really feels he's handled things with admirable elegance considering the post-assignment haze he generally experiences coupled with the usual jet-lag. Well he's a bit out of it and that means his already low ability to filter and process emotions is severely impeded.

All of which leads Harry to feel he should be cut some slack for his awkward exit - chosen at a time where he can't do more than offer Ginny a passing wave and earn narrowed eyes in return.

So when he finds himself off the clock two days later and somehow standing in front of Arabella's, Harry's really not sure it's a good idea. Or even what the idea is.

It's late, yesterday's snow already either shuffled to the side by plows or trampled by Londoners tramping through the streets, and Harry's simultaneously hungry and too terrified to be so.

Because if Ginny Weasley's angry at eight and a half because he and Ron put snails in her sock drawer was terrifying, Harry can only imagine he's in for a dangerous evening.

The overhead bell beckons his entry and Ginny's voice calls from the back, "Just a sec - we're actually - " she pauses wiping her hands on her apron as she emerges from the kitchen, "Closed."

"Is it ever closed for _me_?" Harry asks.

Ginny scowls. "Dunno we haven't really discussed any of this, have we?"

"I-"

"You're not starting off as a particularly enjoyable business partner."

"It's been less than a week, give a bloke a break, yeah?" Harry defends, twisting the lock on the door and claiming a seat at the counter.

Ginny pins him with her stare. "If you're going to hang about after closing, help me clean up."

Harry accepts the rag she tosses at his chest and follows her minimal, and gradually less angry, instructions. It's congenial, and Harry finds himself beginning to relax like he hasn't - maybe ever. At least not without the aid of some sort of sleep-inducing medication or a couple shots of whiskey in his system.

And somehow, Ginny manages to pull him out of himself, her easy chatter draws him in and somehow he finds himself making it more of a conversation. Hell, he's having a good time and Harry would want to thank Mrs. Figg if he wasn't still just a little ticked at being manipulated and at the fact that an octogenarian knew his _interests _better than he did.

Regardless, he returns most nights, sometimes after a day off, sometimes after a long shift he just wants to forget.

Ginny's always there delivering a cheeky rejoinder or a prod to his shoulder when he's 'not putting in enough elbow grease' scrubbing the dishes. And sometimes, he begins to hope, her teasing gets _just _a tinge of flirtatiousness.

After a month, Harry finally asks, "So you're here alone?"

"_That's _not something a serial murderer would say," Ginny says with a smirk, refilling another napkin holder.

"No, I mean, for closing."

Surprisingly, Ginny flushes a bit, her voice only wavering a bit as she begins to speak before strengthening as she squares her jaw, daring him to comment. "Well, that first night, my - _our_ \- help called in sick. And then eventually you were so regular I figured why make Francis stay _and _pay someone when we handled it fine enough."

"So you're taking advantage of my free labor."

"Hardly free _partner_," Ginny teases, filling another holder.

Harry laughs and the shop falls into silence as they go through the motions of closing, now something of a choreographed dance between them.

It's comfortable and yet Harry feels a weight on him, words running up his throat from somewhere he's not even really conscious of. Repressing it begins to feel pointless - why _wouldn't _he just say it? What's the harm? Part of him wonders at his trust of Ginny after only a month, but it's really longer than that, when he thinks about it. And if he spends one more day of his life living in constant apprehension of betrayal, of someone else leaving him or letting him down - maybe Sirius _was_ right.

Bastard.

"Ginny?"

She rises from her crouch behind the counter, ponytail askew and a slash of flour across her cheek, hiding her freckles in a dusting of powder. "Yes?"

"Did you ever - how did you know when to retire?"

Ginny pushes flyaways from her face and disappears into the kitchen, which is really not a particularly fun reaction to receive after finally drumming up courage to ask. But she returns soon enough with a few mismatched slices of pie. "We can eat the mistakes - or the rejects I suppose - and have a chat," Ginny smiles and gestures to one of the tables without the chairs stacked, "Grab a seat."

Harry does as she instructs and sighs. It had been a long day, more death, more horror, more of the worst of humanity. If he's honest, which is something Harry's really working on, it feels like that's all his life is. Arabella's is an escape of sorts. And Ginny is - something else entirely.

"So my retirement? You're not investigating me for some murder, right?" Ginny asks, pulling a slice from the tray and biting into it with a sigh, "We make good pizza."

"No, I - I've just been thinking," Harry fiddles with his napkin and finally selects a slice of pizza absently, heedless of the mushrooms he really doesn't like. Maybe the fidgety nature of pulling them from the pie will calm his nerves. "I've been realizing maybe I'm not happy."

Ginny raises her brows but doesn't interrupt as he continues, "Before I felt like I had a purpose, a reason to be doing what I was doing. Beyond just being _good _at it."

"Even after?"

"Yeah - I felt a pull even after we caught Riddle, like my work wasn't finished," Harry answers, thoughtful, "But lately it feels more like a placeholder, like I'm just doing it to do it."

"You're unhappy."

"I mean - it feels odd to say it ever made me _happy_," Harry laughs, dry, "But I was fulfilled in a strange way, had a purpose, you know?"

Ginny shakes some red pepper flakes onto her pizza and considers him for a moment, her eyes softened, before she responds. "My career wasn't the same as yours, but I think you know when it's time for a change. Even if you don't want to see it. Even when it's scary to see. You invest your life, you devote everything to being the best. It feels mad to leave it all behind."

"And yet you did."

She scoots her chair closer and leans her head onto his shoulder, like they're meant to slot together. "Isn't it madder to leave things the same and stay unhappy?"

* * *

The shop looks different by daylight, Harry notices. Less intimate. And it's odd too. He's never been in a shop completely alone during the day. Or really at all, since his nights spent at Arabella's are never without Ginny except when he takes the rubbish out.

Dull considerations like the oddity of sitting alone are all he has to keep his mind busy, to prevent himself from bouncing around with wild energy or calling and taking everything back.

But he's not one for backpedalling, especially when he's spent so much time and energy in moving forward.

And yet, it feels like a part of him is missing. But instead of the fear of a phantom limb, he feels weightless, like he's thrown away everything holding him back.

Back from what, he's not really examining too closely, so for now - well it's -

The door opens with a ring of the bell and Ginny's low, warbling hums reach him in the dining area. "Alright Gin?"

"Fu- " Ginny drops her keys and grumbles, "You scared me, arsehole."

"I tried not to."

"Sure," Ginny drawls, "Now what are you doing here? Please don't tell me someone was murdered in our kitchen."

Harry laughs and nearly chokes on his tongue when Ginny presses a kiss to his cheek. "Nah, I'm on holiday."

"And you're here."

"I heard this place has the best garlic knots," Harry says, following Ginny as she moves toward the combination supply closet and back office.

"Surprised you know how to find this place in daylight," Ginny teases, jabbing her elbow into his side.

"Arabella's cats are a bit creepier in the full light."

"Don't I know it," Ginny says, wry, "I think Gingersnap's eyes follow me."

"Did you ever ask why a black cat was named Gingersnap," Harry asks as Ginny opens the safe and pulls the register tray free.

"Maybe Arabella was so bad at making 'em they always burnt."

Harry laughs and in the privacy of his mind admits he follows Ginny around like a lost puppy as she preps for the day. So he's pretty close behind when she turns and tosses a pinny in his face. "If you're going to hang about at least pull your weight."

"Where's Franny?"

"Don't bring her into this."

"I just worry after the wellbeing of those in my employ."

Ginny scoffs. "She's on holiday from uni, went home to Kent."

"Just in time to miss London's lovely Grey Christmas," Harry laughs, wrapping the apron strings around his middle and glancing out at the looming clouds overhead, the puddle riddled streets.

"Posh boy used to wintering in exotic locales, can't handle a good ol' fashioned London winter," Ginny teases, "Keep your complaining inside and pitch in, put that fit body to good use."

Shoving Ginny's shoulder, Harry disappears into the kitchen and begins checking the prepped dough and running down Ginny's list of morning tasks.

He's just finished warming up the espresso machine when Ginny returns from her paperwork in the back room. Their gazes lock for a moment and Harry feels like he's been caught out at something, not that he was even _doing _anything. Except perhaps daydreaming a bit about Ginny returning his sad secret feelings and ending their usual teasing banter with snogs instead of flicks to the nose.

But it seems Ginny is _not _clairvoyant, or at least not owning it quite yet when she says, "S'nice having you around. I actually get paperwork done before eleven at night."

"Well," Harry takes a deep breath and ruffles his hair, "Get used to it."

"Get used to - " Ginny narrows her eyes and steps closer, "Why?"

"I had a lot of vacation time saved up," Harry begins, focusing acutely on the grinder, "And I wrapped that case - the human trafficking one," Ginny nods her understanding and Harry continues, "And so I called in my days and uh. I gave notice."

She gapes. "You - "

He puffs out his chest, feeling accomplished at rendering Ginny nearly speechless, "Done. I'm out. That was my last one. Just a few exit interviews after the New Year and then, adios."

Ginny considers him for a moment, unreadable as she almost seems to reach for him, and then shakes her head. "You're such a stalker."

"Excuse me?" Harry yelps with a grin, pressing his palm to his chest.

"Everyone knows you were a Ginny Weasley super fan," Ginny raises one finger, "And that you had a thing for me back before uni," Harry flushes as she plows ahead, "Add in the fact that _your _godfather orchestrated this little 'surprise' partnership," she shakes her head, "You've probably been collecting my hair for a doll at your flat."

"Excuse me, it's a puppet."

* * *

"How's my godson slash entrepreneur?" Sirius barks as he pushes the front door open with his hips.

"Working like a dog, paying for any sins I may have ever committed," Harry growls, hands elbow deep into dough.

Sirius scans him head to toe with an ever-growing smirk, "You're welcome."

Harry's eyebrows shoot high up into his hairline, fists already constricting around the piece of dough he'd been working on. If there's ever anyone's fault for what he's been feeling over the past weeks, the tension and frustration battling in his chest, in his mind, ready to explode in his face the next time she smiles or says something cheeky or simply exists in his presence.

"Don't start making faces," Sirius points a finger at him as Harry's on the verge of snapping back, "I know you when you're happy. I changed your nappies, don't you forget that you ungrateful godson of mine."

And to that Harry doesn't have much to say. Sirius is right, as much as Harry'd like to deny it.

"So you quit," Sirius plows on after a pause.

Harry takes a moment then shrugs, "Yeah, it was time, I guess."

"Good for you. And now - how are things?"

"What do you mean?"

Sirius quickly looks at Ginny absorbed by paperwork and winks, grin, and ultimately nudges Harry.

Harry'd like to send dough spiralling at his godfather's head.

He'd like that very much indeed.

"There's nothing there, Sirius," he mutters.

"Aha," Sirius snorts. "Then tell me this: if you're not fueled by sexual frustration right now then why are you groping and playing with that roll of dough like it's something else?"

Harry feels himself go scarlett, blood boiling in his ears.

"Out. Now."

"Don't I get a pizza for my efforts?" Sirius grins.

"Out before I kick you," Harry barks, wipes his hands on a piece of cloth, ready to take his godfather by the collar before he mocks him even further.

No one pushes his buttons quite like family.

"What about my family discount?"

There's a freshly baked pizza sliding down the front door as Sirius leaves in a fit of pleased laughter, Harry fuming on the other side of the shop.

"Should I ask?" Ginny raises her head from around the stack of papers, eyebrows raised, pen in her mouth.

"No," Harry says, clipped, and marches back to his station.

* * *

Naturally, they thought hanging a_ Buy one, get one free_ sign on their door would be splendid for their business and any small business owner's drive to build a faithful community around their shop.

It proves, however, that as great this move is for their business, it is also horrid for their poor wrists, as they hurt after rolling pizza after pizza, for their cheeks (Harry fears that fake smiling 24/7 might give him a paresis), and, if everyone's being fair, for their mental health and general libido levels. It should be noted that tension, as well as flour, can be cut with a knife.

"Think we should hire help?" Harry asks after the upteenth time he coughs on flour.

A relieved sigh, "Thought you'd never ask. We definitely need one of those people that can naturally smile non-stop, know what I mean? Because if I have to grin like a loon for one more customer, I'm officially out."

Harry scans her closely and pouts a little.

"Would you really?"

"Would I what?"

"You know, leave me?"

She doesn't spare him a glance, fully concentrated on adding extra cheesy on an already cheesy pizza.

"Are we together now, Potter?"

"Let's not hide behind those floury fingers, Weasley, I saw you checking out my arse," Harry huffs, watching her curiously out of the corner of his eye.

Ginny laughs wholeheartedly for a beat, cheese and pizza forgotten.

"Harry, Harry, if that's how easy it is for a girl to get you, then you must've had a million relationships because that bum is super tight."

Harry feels himself blush, chest warming on the inside.

"So's - erm, so's yours."

"Well, if we're doing this," Ginny grins cheekily, "so are your eyes."

It's Harry's turn to grin, he's very pleased.

"My eyes are tight?"

"Don't be a prick. Your eyes are pretty," she sticks out her tongue at him, resuming her pizza making.

A pause, tense and vibrant.

"So is your hair. And your freckles. And the way you look when you've got your mind set on something," Harry mumbles at first but manages to finish in a more confident note, eyeing her from behind his round specs.

Ginny takes a moment for herself, rubs her nose then turns around to look at Harry with the very look he mentioned. That hard, blazing look that starts a fire within him and sends his thoughts twisting and turning into dangerous places.

"Your messy hair, your little smirk when you're pleased with yourself. You."

Harry's completely forgotten about customers trundling in, orders upon orders to be delivered or anything else for that matter. All he has the wit to say is a feeble "oh."

A wall of tension thickens and threatens to crush them, each staring at the other, each holding their position, feet firmly on the ground, cheeks flushed and hearts beating wildly.

"It's hot in here," Ginny remarks, dry.

"Yeah. I know."

"So bloody hot," she speaks again, still yet daring.

Harry can hear himself breathe hard, "The - uh, ovens."

A minute passes and, as it drags its heavy legs to the finish line, Harry hears rather than sees Ginny laugh a bit to herself, throw away the piece of cloth she used to clean her hands and stride over to him.

"Yeah, I can't handle it. Thought I could, but I can't," Ginny sighs and informs the room at large.

"So why are you unbuttoning _my_ shirt?" Harry manages to underline before his brain explodes at the touch of her smooth fingers over the skin of his chest.

"Helping?"

She's undeterred as she speaks, rather absently while her fingers work every button, one after the other until his shirt lays open and their gazes lock.

Harry barks a laugh, "Try again?"

"You've got a spot," Ginny shrugs, fingers mapping the length of his chest.

Harry closes his eyes, draws in a breath. He lets it out in a shudder.

"So've you."

There's barely a second between his words and the moment Ginny's legs lock around him, his hands supporting her on the table top, they're mouths kissing hard and fast. Kissing, licking, grazing, biting in a tangle of hair and flour and pizza everywhere.

Harry'd like to say something clever and sassy but he'd like to keep kissing Ginny even more. And more. And more until her tongue is in his mouth and her palms moving in circles on his bare chest and his fingers knotted in her ginger hair.

He feels they're melting into each other, limbs glued together like mold, fire blazing, scorching.

It's more than any of them can take.

"Move this elsewhere?" Ginny gasps between kisses.

"Do we really have to?" Harry breathes, pants.

"Unless you wanna risk a citation from the Health Department," she giggles into his ears, giggles that turn into full on laughter when he lifts her in the air, carries her into the pantry, locks the door.

Laughter that turns into moaning when their lips meet again behind closed doors.


End file.
